


A perpetual opus

by Anonymous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Training, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Brainwashing, Cunnilingus, F/F, Multiple Orgasms, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Sadism, Scratching, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It is reasonably important to Moira that her new plaything enjoys herself too. Reasonably.
Relationships: Brigitte Lindholm/Moira O'Deorain
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Anonymous, Id Pro Quo 2020





	A perpetual opus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackOfNone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/gifts).



For the past ten weeks, a portion of Moira's laboratory had been blocked off to all assistants and visitors. It would be considered a flagrant abuse of Oasis' resources were the other Ministers to find out what went on therein, but Moira did not, in reality, defer to them. If Akande and Maximilien were happy to turn a blind eye to her extracurricular activities, that was all the permission she needed.

The old lab had been cleared of much of the equipment that once occupied it. In the antechamber, the old research terminal still stood, meticulously logging her subject's vitals, hormonal fluctuations, the substances circling in her system at present. Moira loosened her tie as she checked the monitor. Currently, vitals were within normal range—pulse slightly elevated, but that was consistent with prior readings. The test chamber beyond could be seen through a two-way mirror. Into it Moira had moved in a sparse amount of furniture: a double bed, a sizable locked trunk, and her subject, one Brigitte Lindholm. The young woman knelt at the foot of the bed, arms folded behind her back and cuffed to the ring in her collar. She had not budged from that spot since last Moira left her, like a forgotten toy on the floor. But for the quivering of her muscled back, her broad arms, her thick, strained thighs, she did not move a hair.

Moira opened the door. "Good evening, pet." Brigitte righted herself as much as she could on her knees, lower back tensing, taut little arse cheeks tightening. She responded exclusively to that address now. The last time Moira visited her, she did not even recognise her name. Her eyes were hazy, sweaty auburn strands plastered to her cheeks and her brow. Her neck strained against the strap binding it to her wrists, forced into an obtuse angle for the hours she had been made to wear it. But she valiantly stayed upright, waiting to be commanded, commended, disciplined. Her sheer determination had stayed charmingly intact.

"You look thirsty," Moira said.

Brigitte had not drunk, eaten, or slept for some days. For a scientist of Moira's calibre it was child's play to suspend the need for those inconveniences. But Brigitte now shuddered, and her pupils gaped like little black mouths, and her wet tongue pulled over her damp, shiny lips, and she croaked: "God. Yes." Moira stood over her, loosening her buttons, watching Brigitte's hungry eyes eat up the slowly-opening expanse of skin. Her abdomen, the cleavage of her breasts—Brigitte's whole body writhed to see Moira's nipples as she tossed her shirt away. She _thirsted_. Moira could've smiled.

She unbuttoned her trousers and seated herself on the edge of the mattress, beckoning her pet: "Come, then." Her thighs opened. She hiked her knickers aside, exposing the swell of herself, grinning at the rosy flush that rose up the girl's freckled collarbone. "Drink."

Brigitte needed no second invitation. On her knees she shambled, nestling into Moira's cunt like coming home, tasting her clit, working her hot tongue into the folds with an unexpected force for the encumbrance of her bondage—one that made Moira spasm. She had taken to her conditioning so much better than Moira anticipated, with such _enthusiasm_. It showed in the steam-heat of her shallow breaths, billowing against the raised mound of Moira's cunt between passes of her tongue from perineum to swollen clitoris. And so endearing, the soft little grunts and chokes she would utter between sucks and slurps. Moira slung her knees over Brigitte's broad shoulders as the latter worked so diligently, drawing her closer—easing her burden in a small way. Those shoulders quaked in the hollows of her knees. In her exuberance her arms squirmed against their restraints—this would have to be curbed. Moira rolled her hips, pinning Brigitte's head between her bony thighs, Brigitte's face trapped against her, muffling her abrupt yelp. She was helpless to do anything but lap shallowly at her, and at first dutifully continued that. Moira held her there until her shuddering squirms weakened and her tongue stilled.

She loosened her hold; Brigitte rocked back and sucked down a wet, welcome gasp of air. Moira reclined, simply, for the moment, allowing her that privilege. "There's a good pet. Now…" She grasped the girl by the collar and pulled her in, steadying her, focusing her, whispering: "Keep going."

And Brigitte focused—glutting herself on the ripe plum that was Moira's cunt, plumbing its warm hollow with her tongue, nourishing herself on its sweet juices. Moira rocked her hips in an even rhythm, getting faster, faster—her cunt tensing, warming, holding that tension, tightening it, crushing it in the way fingers closed into a fist, bony fingers white-knuckling the clean sheets—hard enough to jerk her knee in the air, hard enough to grind her ankle into the small of Brigitte's back—

Moira cried out. Her cunt shuddered, her body erupting, her juices filling the girl's spluttering mouth. Dutiful—thirsting—Brigitte lapped her labia clean of every drop.

When she had regained her breath, she cupped Brigitte's damp chin in her hands. "Are you satisfied?"

"Umm—uh- _huhh_." Brigitte's tone was groggy, her rosy lips slack, pink tongue lolling, eyes half-lidded, the very picture of satiation. Make no mistake: her body, roused by Moira's taste, was very much awake. She panted for breath; she swayed her hips. Her cheek chased Moira's stroking hand.

"Oh, I _know,_ " Moira cooed. Her fingers raked through Brigitte's sweat-dampened hair. "I am very satisfied, pet. Be proud." Brigitte's glossy, drooling lips curled in a child's grin—happy to be praised, happy to have fulfilled the bare minimum of her purpose. "We are not done yet," Moira told her. "Get up here."

Brigitte slung herself over the edge of the mattress as bidden, plump arse cheeks out. Their enhancement had proven an unexpected and not undesired side effect of hormonal recalibration. Moira admired them as a sculptor does his creation—that is to say, lasciviously. She ran her fingers down the girl's bound arms, traced them over her wrists, drew circles in the small of her back, and closed the diameter of her fingers around those plump arse cheeks. Brigitte's goose pimples chased her every move. And as she raked her nails down her arse, Brigitte's dripping labia clenched.

She could do this all night, but they had much work still to do. Moira unbuckled the straps shackling Brigitte's wrists to her collar. With the loosening of that tension in her neck, Brigitte uttered a groan that was almost a cry. Her wrists swiveled with newfound vigor in this liberation, even a partial one. And when Moira uncuffed her hand, she flung her arms out wide, sinking her body's weight into the embrace of the mattress.

Moira cut her newfound freedom short. "On your back, pet," she bade. Without hesitation Brigitte rolled over. The sweat on her body, sheening over her freckled skin, made her opalesce. In so many ways, her pet was a treasure simply to admire. If only her troublesome hands did not wander so. Brigitte had taken her nipples into her fingers, pinching and teasing them to swollen stiffness.

Moira seized her by her wrist—a strong, sturdy thing, but not so one indestructible it couldn't be _twisted,_ its vulnerable skin opened by Moira's talons. Brigitte squealed.

"You are not to touch yourself, pet. We've been over this."

"I'm sorry," Brigitte rasped, "I'm sorry." Fresh red dotted the white sheets.

"I do not need you to tell me you're sorry." The crescent of her thin-lipped grin glinted in Brigitte's wide, teary eyes. "I need you to show me."

Brigitte whimpered.

Moira straddled her pet's sturdy waist. "I know you struggle, dear," she told her. Her uninjured wrist had been left in its cuff, seemingly—though not actually—forgotten. "And I can be gracious." Moira took her by that hand, hooking the empty cuff to the bedpost. "So I will halve your impulse to offend. It's so much easier now, isn't it?" The other hand clawed up in pain or apprehension, but Moira cradled it in hers, and patted all its fingers lax, and kissed the blood away from her freckled arm. Gradually, Brigitte's breasts stopped heaving. Her cheeks flushed, vacuous eyes transfixed, the fear having drained all away. Of course she would lapse; of course she would have her faults. Her conditioning was hardly an instantaneous process. (And there was some part of Moira that enjoyed a perpetual opus, something continually to build, shape, and refine.)

From a well of deeper patience and fondness than she thought herself capable of, Moira smiled. "You have done so well so far. Can you keep being good for me?"

"I… want to."

"And I want you to, but that is not what I asked. _Can_ you?"

"Y—yes." Her chest puffed up. "Yes." (With _such_ enthusiasm.)

Moira took Brigitte's dense, sensitive breasts in her hands. These had also been well-treated by the hormonal alterations to Brigitte's body. The dense tissue had a satisfying weight in the cups of Moira's hands—and it was so much more sensitive than once it was, causing Brigitte to wriggle with a light squeeze. She rolled her palms into them, scissored her bony fingers on the stiff, ruddy nipples. Brigitte's arousal dripped onto the sheets.

Abruptly Moira dug a nail into the seam between nipple and pebbled areola and watched the cords of Brigitte's throat rise.

"If you cannot keep your hand off of your body, there will be more of that. Do you understand?" Brigitte returned a stiff-jawed nod of comprehension. Moira could be satisfied enough by this to leave her pet unsupervised for a moment.

The locked trunk opened exclusively to Moira's genetic signature. (It would not do to have a lock her pet could pick, even in theory.) From it she took a black dildo with a flared base, its length, girth, and heft in her hand all impressive. As she showed it to Brigitte, the merest suggestion of a grimace, like a veil, drew over her vacant face. Moira clucked her tongue. "That's not a good look on you, pet."

"U-um—!" Abashed, Brigitte turned her face into the pillow. But she had disliked anal penetration from the very start. She had struggled to take one slender finger at first—had lashed and squirmed, her cunt dry, her mouth lush with curses and (far more incessant) pleas until Moira, weary of the sound of her voice, gagged her.

Now Moira said, "I want you to look at me, pet." The sternness of her voice jerked Brigitte's attention back to her, foggy dread rising in her unblinking eyes. "Good, very good. I want you to watch what I am doing."

She poured a palmful of clear lubricant into her hand and stroked it up and down the toy, slathering it to a glimmering shine under the harsh laboratory lighting. Brigitte's hazy eyes tracked the drag of her palm up and down that formidable length. Her lips pursed, thinned, and contorted as Moira worked. The rise and fall of her chest quickened—and heightened.

Moira commanded: "Open." Brigitte's thighs sprang wide, despite her apprehension. Moira welcomed herself between her legs and wet her fingers with the slippery arousal gathering in Brigitte's flushed, open cunt. Her labia spasmed as Moira gathered fingerfuls of slick from her, stroking into the deep crevice from clit to tail. She tapped her nails against Brigitte's taut perineum—her body still resisting, even as she outwardly tried her very best to heed Moira. And as Moira glazed the soft depression of Brigitte's arsehole with her own slick, it scrunched up tight; Brigitte's proud chest deflated, and she whimpered audibly.

Moira flattened her expression. "You are not to struggle, or to cry, as you take your training. There will be punishment of your pretty breasts for that offense also, and I think we both understand that would be a shame to do."

Her obedient pet nodded. The fingers of her free hand clutched the sheets. Privately, Moira did not think it a shame at all.

In Brigitte's unblinking, vacant eyes, Moira watched her own silhouette loom—watched the immense obelisk of a toy approaching her, Brigitte's pupils chasing its swaying silicone head. She had sucked in her stomach. Moira steadied a hand on a thigh that tensed against the impulse to spring closed as she brought the heavy phallus between Brigitte's legs and swiveled the head against her hole. The pursing of her lips had turned to biting. Her throat bobbed several times. Moira held her like that—her sweaty, quavering body, hips rocking and squirming, arse cheeks knotting up, as Moira spun the dildo against her hole but withheld penetration.

Brigitte broke out: "Please. _Please_."

"Please what, pet?"

Her pet, with her white-pinched lip and her arse tense as a drumskin, was at a loss to answer.

"Mm. I know you are nervous." Moira lowered her lifted brow. "Think of it as just like getting a shot. If you don't know when it's coming it doesn't hurt nearly as badly. And just like a shot—" The pads of her fingers worked into Brigitte's hot, damp thigh. "—it really is in your best interest, you understand."

Brigitte swallowed.

"Close your eyes, if it helps. Close your eyes and think of how happy you'll make me." And Moira thrust the thick dildo into Brigitte's hole.

Brigitte's cry rattled the mirror.

Her second cry was not so dramatic even for the injury having drawn blood—Moira's nails raking pink, raised lines down Brigitte's breast and splitting the nipple open. Brigitte panted and croaked, formless, animal sounds, her lips grasping for words but not quite holding them.

"Apologise, pet," Moira said.

"I— _f-fuck—!_ " Moira had started to pump the dildo in her arse.

"Apologise." She dug and twisted her claw into the crevice of open flesh.

"I'm—sorry! I'm sorry!"

Moira smiled. "I really do want what's best for you." A red bead welled and broke, trickling down the supple curve of Brigitte's lovely breast—amid the glistening diamonds of her sweat, a chain of ruby.

Lovelier was the toy that took on the sheen of onyx as Moira dragged it out, in, out, in—the stretch of her dusky hole around its girth with each withdrawal, and then the plunge, making Brigitte cringe with her abdomen and her clawing fingers. She chewed her lower lip hard enough to draw fresh blood. She had, as advised, closed her eyes. Moira coached: "It's not so bad at all, is it? Isn't it lovely, to be nice and _full?_ Isn't it a privilege to have so many holes to give me?"

And it was, even if Brigitte struggled to embrace that; as she worked the silicone cock in Brigitte's hole, her rosy swell of a cunt squeezed and spasmed until it blurted wetness—until Brigitte loosed her death-grip on her own lip with a wobbly groan. Moira squared her shoulders with the delicious pride of vindication. "There. I knew you could do well for me, pet."

Brigitte nodded, her cheeks and brow flushed, her slack mouth drawing deep, uninterrupted breaths, relaxed—daring to be _relieved._

The relief would soon enough melt off her face as Moira dragged her fingers through Brigitte's come and used it to wet around the lower part of the thick shaft. With little preamble she forced its girth in, all the way to its flared hilt. Brigitte's shoulders stiffened—her clawed hand jumped from its resting spot in the sheets. She did not shout or cry, and for this she could be commended. With each fresh thrust into her arsehole, unrelenting and heedless of her exhausted cunt, her staccato breaths hitched.

But in thoughtless frustration, Brigitte hooked her fingers into her cunt, rolling the heel of her palm into her clit, stroking and pawing and attempting vainly to reawaken arousal in the static of her spent nerves. Moira anticipated precisely this (this was not the first time), and was ready to sink her nails into her nipple until her blood flowed in rivulets and her throat croaked.

"You will come _only_ from being fucked in the arse," Moira said. "And you will _keep_ coming from being fucked into the arse until I let you stop." Brigitte buried her fingers in the sheets, twisting them into a rosette, stretching the stains of red and browning blood.

Yes, it took time—perhaps twenty minutes, when she had reached her first climax in about five—but Brigitte did come. Moira knew she would. And she fucked her still harder. _Her_ work was not done.

"Tell me how much you love being fucked so well. Tell me how much you love your arse filled up so full."

"I luh—I love." Brigitte's trembling lips slurred, glistening tongue tracing and retracing its path over her Cupid's bow. Blood and spittle dribbled down her chin.

"Tell me how much you love _belonging_ to me," Moira said.

"I-I luh—hah—" Her spine bowed, her hips arching and rolling into— _welcoming_ the thrust of the toy. Her apprehension overcome, her pain no longer an object—or an embraced one. Here lay the subtlety of Moira's art. The hormonal tidal cycle of repeated climaxes, arousal mounting arousal, overriding her terror—overriding _her._ Vacant, Brigitte's mind gaped like her legs, melted like her body. Her arse the proxy—Moira gleefully fucked into her pet's soft and delicate brain.

"Say it." Moira slipped her hand down the front of her knickers, working her clit between two fingers. "Say that you're mine."

"Yours—I'm only— _unh—!_ " A formless howl erupted from her mouth. She came harder and wetter than ever, splattering her inner thighs and Moira's hand. And gleefully, Moira pumped the toy in Brigitte's arsehole, relishing the girl's unspooling.

Moira had ensured her tracks were hidden. After months on heightened alert, she relaxed in the certainty that Brigitte's father (boor that he was), that Reinhardt (old, shambling, so-called knight, to whom the girl merely played squire), that her Overwatch cohorts would not find the girl. It should be a mercy on her captive, really, no more to suffer the uncertainty of rescue's possibility. To unshackle her from the ties binding her to those neanderthals—she should be fucking grateful. And from time to time the thought passed through Moira's mind that she might dangle in front of her old, detested colleagues what she had made of their best daughter. What a treat it would be to watch them squirm.

That would be a joy to savour, at best, one time. She could on the other hand simply—in fact with greater ease—keep the girl like this. Concealed to the world, her little secret. And for a scientist of Moira's calibre, _that_ could be savoured for far longer than one lifetime.

Brigitte would come twice more, each climax more violent than the last. When Moira relented—wiping her fingers on the sheets, sighing her satisfaction—the turgor would leave Brigitte's body instantly, with the soft slide of the toy, the only thing keeping it corked up in her, leaving her arse. Every part of her body that wasn't cuffed to a bedpost would slump; her slack mouth would heave deep breaths. Oblivious to the blood that streaked her torso and her clavicle and her wrist and the bed, she would sprawl. Her eyes would gaze at nothing: gone. Moira's chest would bloom with something like genuine fondness.

Moira opened the mantis-fold of her limbs and splayed herself on the bed, the parenthesis of her shape bracketing her pet. She uncuffed her—her poor wrist chafed pink and raw—and stroked her flushed temple. "I am harsh, I know. You are doing so, so well. Even a week ago you still cried when I fucked your arse. Today you did not cry even once." She turned Brigitte's face towards her and kissed each dry cheek. "You have been so good to me. You are always such a good girl to me, Brigitte."

Her pet's eyelids fluttered.

Moira pursed her lips. Brigitte's eyes refocused somewhere into the middle distance, a familiar murk drawing shut like a door over them. Moira held her tongue. Never let her be thought incapable of grace.


End file.
